


Domeric Lives: The New Trajectory of House Bolton

by Tapirus_Augustus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tapirus_Augustus/pseuds/Tapirus_Augustus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Domeric had not died shortly prior to the events of A Game of Thrones? Here is my humble attempt to answer this interesting question. This work is being posted here and at alternatehistory.com</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ramsay I

Ramsay’s first instinct had been to fly at the young man and cut out his throat without uttering a word, that would serve the interloper right, but then he noted the fine castle-forged steel at Domeric’s hip and judged that if the heir of Bolton’s martial skill was half as prodigious as his riding, Ramsay would be dead long before he closed to striking range. Even after coming to that conclusion he hadn't completely ruled out the frontal assault. What did he really have to loose? Life was nothing but a series of torments to him. His only friend in the world was the hideously odorous Reek. His mother loathed and feared him, and he in turn despised her. He lived in a miserable hovel in a tiny hamlet on the Weeping Waters. And now his trueborn brother had come down from the Dreadfort just to rub his good fortune in Ramsay’s face.

Ramsay had known who he was as soon as he’d ridden into view. Even without the red flayed man embroidered on his clothes and the trappings of his horse he would have recognized the icy Bolton eyes anywhere. Though somehow on Domeric they were not hideous, merely eerily intriguing. Ramsay had always known of Domeric’s existence, and had always resented him. And then today he had simply appeared in all his finery, sweeping off of a magnificent red mare in front of Ramsay’s shabby dwelling.

He approached Ramsay, and embraced him.

“My brother.” Domeric’s voice was slightly deeper than his father’s, and had a hint of compassion, something Roose would never have allowed. Yet it had the same captivating intensity despite its low volume.

Ramsay was not entirely sure how to react to this, it was preposterous that this young lordling would want anything to do with his baseborn brother; yet here he was. Ramsay almost made a move for his knife, Domeric would never see it coming now, but Ramsay’s curiosity got the better of him. He had to find out what Domeric wanted.

It turned out that what Domeric wanted was to share a meal.

“The Dreadfort’s kitchen is not quite up to the standards you’d find in the Vale, but they do make an excellent meat pie. I do hope you’ll try one. Father says that your name is Ramsay and that you’ve lived here your whole life. Is this true?”

“It is,” Ramsay answered, still trying to decide what to make of the situation. He sampled the meat pie. Domeric was at least right about the quality of the pie, it was the best thing Ramsay had eaten since… probably forever.

Domeric proceeded to ask further questions of Ramsay: How was his health? Who were his friends? Had he whittled that wooden figure himself? As Domeric continued to inquire after him in his subdued but warm manner Ramsay gradually set himself at ease. His brother was clearly a fool. A weak halfwit clearly not fit to hold the Dreadfort. He was nothing like his terrifying father. Roose would probably thank Ramsay for disposing of this buffoon with all his southern knightly airs. And after Ramsay was gone, who could replace him as heir but Ramsay himself? Yes, everything would work out very well for the Bastard of Bolton.

Ramsay answered his brother’s questions with easy confidence now. Lulling him in a false sense of comfort and fraternal amicability. All the while he considered options for how to carry out his plan. The knife in the back would be no good, it would have to look like an accident, perhaps poison? But then Domeric asked a fateful question:

“How do you amuse yourself out here in these wilds?”

“I hunt…. Perhaps you’d care to join me some time?” And Ramsay knew that his brother’s fate was sealed.


	2. Domeric I

Domeric had never enjoyed a day’s hunting less. It was a week after his initial meeting with Ramsay, and Domeric had rather hoped that on his return to the Weeping Water he would find that the unease he had felt about his brother would have departed. But on his return Domeric found that it had only increased. True Ramsay had been courteous enough in a simpering way, but there was something very definitely wrong about him. He had made a great show of gratefully receiving Domeric’s gift of a fine new knife, bought using some of the winnings from the informal squire’s tourney at Longbow Hall which Domeric had won a year ago. Ramsay in return had given Domeric the whittled figure that Domeric had remarked upon the day before: a flayed man carved all too lovingly with what seemed like far too much knowledge of human anatomy for an uneducated peasant to know.

Ramsay had introduced Domeric to his friend and servant, the aptly named Reek. Domeric had never imagined, much less become acquainted with such a repulsive person. Yet Ramsay could not exactly be held responsible for keeping such company, Reek had been a “gift” from Domeric’s own Lord Father, another man around whom Domeric was more than a little uncomfortable.

Ramsay hunted with no little skill, which was odd for one of his station. He really should not have been permitted to hunt at all given his lack of trueborn noble blood. Domeric had not mentioned this having seen how even an oblique mention of his bastardy would darken Ramsay’s temperament. Ramsay must have been aware of the illegality of his actions anyway.

As the day had worn on Domeric had observed his brother with growing distaste. At the sight of a hare Ramsay had donned a hideous feral expression. Domeric had hardly expected his brother to enjoy hunting after the fashion of a southern lord, but the obvious pleasure that Ramsay experienced at the possibility of inflicting suffering upon living creatures was repellant.

Ramsay’s manner became more and more distasteful as the trio traveled further and further into the forest. He told increasingly distasteful jokes and eventually began to openly mock Domerics Southern manners and fine clothes. Finally, a little after noon, they came upon a fresh buck’s trail. Shortly thereafter Reek espied the young stag in the distance. It was a poor scrawny creature, and had Domeric been hunting with his Redfort foster- brothers in the Mountains of the Moon he would almost certainly have let it go, but by now he was anxious to be gone.

“Would you like to take the shot, Ramsay?”

“No no my little lordly brother, I couldn’t imagine depriving you of your rites in your own forest. You must take it I’ll wait back here and mind my bastard business.”

Domeric gritted his teeth in contempt, but was somewhat relieved. He’d be sure to put the poor animal out of its misery as quickly as possible, something Ramsay was hardly likely to do. He went a little bit ahead, gauging the distance to the Stag and then shuffled forward a little more. For some reason the hair on the back of his neck had risen, there was something deeply wrong here.

He would never be sure what exactly had tipped him off, certainly there had been no sound, but in an instant he took a step to the side and turned around, narrowly avoiding the broad-headed hunting arrow which Ramsay had just loosed at him.

“Fuck him! Kill him Reek,” roared out Ramsay.

Ramsay’s servant was scarcely 20 feet from Domeric, but he still had his arrow nocked, and long practice served Domeric well. The shaft buried itself deep in Reek’s throat.

It was only an instant later that Ramsay himself set upon Domeric. In his right hand he his old hunting knife, and his other the new one which Domeric had gifted him only that same morning; and he attacked with a ferocity the likes of which Domeric had never seen before. Domeric had left his sword at the Dreadfort, not thinking it would be needed out in the wilderness, and so had only his own knife and his still strung bow which he held like a quarterstaff trying to keep his brother out of stabbing-range. Domeric was grateful that his brother lacked any formal training, but even so his manic aggression was taking a toll.

And then, in one moment, Domeric saw his chance. He struck out at his brother with his bow, an unimpressive attack which Ramsay easily avoided. However, in doing so his right foot came down awkwardly on the fallen branch which Domeric had noticed a moment earlier. Ramsay slipped and attempted to break his fall with his left hand, dropping his knife in the process. Domeric however had lept at him and managed to fully knock him to the ground, pinning him in the process. He brought his knife to Ramsay’s throat pushing his cheek into the earth.

Heedless of his danger Ramsay attempted to take Domeric in the side with the knife he still held, but Domeric had anticipated his move and caught his wrist not a moment to soon. He raised his right hand over the prone Ramsay’s face for the finishing blow, but his father’s voice seemed to speak to him

“No man is so accursed as the kinslayer, for that reason alone did I let your half-brother live.”

The knife fell, pommel-side down, on the side of Ramsay’s head, knocking him out cold.


	3. Ramsay II

Domeric’s emotionless face was the first thing Ramsay saw when he came to. His head and back ached, but he seemed otherwise fine. He was in a chair, his brother sitting opposite him. Ramsay made to rise only to find that he was tied down.

“So you’ve woken up have you?”

“Where am I?”

“Oh, you’re just where you wanted to be. You’re in the Dreadfort. That is what you wanted is it not?” Domeric was peeling a pear with a thin hook-bladed knife. A flaying knife, Ramsay noticed to his horror.

“You thought that in killing me you would be able to usurp my position as heir, didn’t you? I doubt your plan would have worked, but hardly matters now.” Domeric took a bite from the pear. A tiny droplet of juice hit Ramsay just below his eye.

“No, that’s not what I…”

“Silence!” Domeric’s voice was not raised but it would brook no argument. “I know what you tried to do. You broke my heart, Ramsay. You broke my heart. You were my only brother and you sought to murder me, to steal my inheritance as soon as you met me. And I would have given you so much. I would have brought you here and given you a position. I would have found lands for you, a suitable bride. I would have given you a name of your own because you were my brother, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. Now you have lost everything.”

Domeric stood up and walked behind Ramsay’s seat.

“You won’t kill me,” Ramsay finally managed to sputter out, “that would make you a kinslayer too. The kinslayer is accursed.”

“That’s rather rich coming from you,” Domeric said in his low unyielding voice. “But then again, you are only half a brother, so perhaps this would make me only half a kinslayer. I might be willing to be half accursed if it means making you entirely dead. The gods know you deserve it. But why speak of this? There are plenty of other options available to me. You know my first thought had been to send you to Lord Stark for justice, but father said, and yes father knows all about this, that it would be better if I handled this on my own. If I’m to rule one day it is necessary that I know how to deal with criminals and traitors. He also suggested that at my age I ought to be learning to uphold certain family traditions. He gave me this, you know.”

The flaying knife appeared in the periphery of Ramsay’s vision then disappeared again. Domeric rested his hands on Ramsay’s shoulders, the tip of the knife now at the nape of his neck.

“I could send you to the wall of course. They’re always in need of men on the wall. And there’s no reason that I couldn’t send you minus a few fingers. Or I could leave you in this room for the rest of your life. I could take off more than a few fingers in that case. I’d just have to make sure you didn’t actually die. Short of that I’m well within my rights.

Domeric returned to his seat, still eating his pear. He looked at Ramsay for a moment, and then continued, “I think that most of the life story you gave me a week ago was a lie, now why don’t you tell me some truths? Tell me no falsehoods and hold nothing back, I want to know everything about you. But first, confess your crime.”

Ramsay said nothing.

“Speak, Snow, and once we’re done I’ll even bring you a meal. If you don’t… father has said that a flayed man has no secrets. Will you force me to find out if he’s right?

“Yes I tried to kill you. I wanted your name, I wanted your lands, I wanted your father, and I wanted you gone.”

“Excellent job, Ramsay. We may be able to get on after all.”


	4. Domeric II

Domeric walked out of the Dreadfort’s dungeon without a hitch in his step. He continued in a similar manner past the gaoler and up stairs and along corners until he was finally in his own room. Yet as soon as the heavy oaken door closed behind him he found himself collapsing into the nearest chair, his head in his hands. He was absolutely exhausted. For two hours he had talked with his murderous bastard brother. For two hours he’d had to maintain the illusion that he would really be willing to torture anybody, much less his own kin. His Bolton features helped to maintain an impassive façade, but it was still tiring work.

Not that he could truly relax outside of the dungeons. The Dreadfort’s men were course and crude and completely unimpressed by most of Domeric’s accomplishments. His riding might be respected, and his swordplay too, but skill with the harp and a knowledge of history and etiquette won him no friends in his father’s home. It had become a common-enough joke about the castle to say that Domeric “had more Redfort than Dreadfort about him.”

Domeric had known not to complain about the jokes to his father. That would be weakness, and only a display of strength would impress the men of Bolton. It had been the constant burden of building a tough northern image that had made Domeric decide to seek out his brother. As it was, the only person he could really confide in was his lady mother, and the last thing he needed now was to get a reputation as a mamma’s boy. Forming a real friendship with his own kin would have relieved both his boredom and loneliness, and if he got to publically defy the will of his father and appear decisive independent, so much the better. He’d heard rumors about his brother of course, but hadn’t really believed them. The past two hours in Ramsay’s cell had confirmed everything and then some.

Certainly Ramsay resented his bastard status, and Reek had been a horrible influence on him, but there seemed to be something more, something deeper and darker. Domeric had occasionally heard maesters debate about a man’s nature versus his nurture and now thought that if they could have the opportunity to meet Ramsay they might be able to settle the debate once and for all. Ramsay certainly seemed as irredeemable as anything: a sullen violent young man whose only pleasures seemed to be hunting, cock-fighting, and taking liberties with the village girls.

What was to be done with such a hopeless wretch? He couldn’t kill him, that was right out, nor could he send him off to be killed. His lord father had called that “a craven’s ploy.” Probably the most reasonable option would be some light flaying and then banishment to the wall. There was a lot to recommend this course of action. It would put Ramsay out of his life and also help to establish Domeric’s reputation for ferocity, a necessary trait if he was to rule the Dreadfort one day

Yet there was something unappealing about this option. It would be a concession of defeat to Roose Bolton and everything that he stood for. It would mean that the old Bolton ways of torture, isolation, and quiet plotting were somehow a legitimate manner to run a noble house. Domeric had different ideas.

Living in The Vale, Domeric had come to be more than a little ashamed of his house. House Redfort, house Royce, house Corbray and others all had long lists of illustrious predecessors, men who had brought glory to their dynasties in wars and in times of peace. Domeric had seen the value of this kind of a family reputation. The Redforts were able to use their house’s honor and prestige to arrange better marriages and acquire larger dowries, to receive honors from their liege and to win a warm place in the hearts of their smallfolk. The name of Redfort inspired confidence, loyalty, and even friendship from complete strangers.

House Bolton had none of these advantages, instead it had a reputation of cruelty that surpassed even house Uller and house Trant. Perhaps the only family in Westeros with a worse repute was the Ironborn house Codd. Instead of fabled knights and wise kings, house Bolton had a long history of producing torturers and maniacs. It was not a name that easily won friends and allies, nor was it one that caused noble maidens to bestow favors or to attract great thinkers and artists. House Bolton was the second mightiest of Lord Eddard Stark’s bannermen, after the Manderleys, yet it had precious few real friends. Whatever value a terrifying reputation might have in wartime, it was not a great asset during times of peace, and Westeros was at peace far more often than not.

It was Domeric’s ambition to build house Bolton anew, to bring it into the society of families like Royce, Lefford, Tarly, and Dayne, other great dynasties who had historically had far more influence in the affairs of the realm than far off house Bolton, despite commanding similar numbers of swords. Resorting to old Bolton habits of establishing a reputation and dealing with dissent would be an inauspicious beginning to Domeric’s career. No, there had to be another way. He would find a way to bring house Bolton into a new age, and he would find a way to bring Ramsay to heel with all his fingers intact.


	5. Domeric III

Domeric looked out his bedroom window at the field below him. The sun’s rays had only just begun to creep across the horizon, but already Ramsay was at his exercises, running laps around and around the nearby pasture under the watchful eye of Cedric Coffyn, the Dreadfort master-of-arms. It had been four months since Ramsay’s most unfortunate attempt at fratricide, and fourteen weeks since he had first been allowed out of his cell. Domeric had spent two weeks learning as much as he could about Ramsay, both from the man himself and from the smallfolk on the Weeping Water. At least part of Ramsay’s problem, Domeric had decided, was that the man had had almost nothing to do his entire life. Being the son of the local miller, Ramsay had no fields to farm, and the hush-money paid by Roose Bolton over the years had ensured that Ramsay always led a reasonably comfortable life, at least when compared to the other smallfolk around him. With few responsibilities, he had been incredibly indolent, sometimes doing nothing but sit on the stump outside his home all day long. 

Therefore, Domeric had decided that Ramsay would be kept constantly active once he was released from the dungeons. He was made to exercise rigorously every morning, and then was set at a variety of menial, but hopefully character-building, tasks around the castle. If he performed his work well he was rewarded, normally with nicer food, a blanket, or some other minor amenity. If he was sullen or slothful these rewards could be taken away. On one occasion he had tried to run off. The formidable Cedric had given him such a beating after this that there was no second attempt. Domeric followed Ramsay’s progress carefully, and was generally pleased with the developments. Ramsay was no longer being openly defiant and the exercise had certainly had its effect. It had helped to clear up the blotchiness of his skin and, after loosing some of his excess flesh, he was not entirely unhandsome, albeit in a way that was unaccountably disquieting.

Before ever letting Ramsay out of the dungeons, Domeric had taken an additional precaution. He had requested that his father take an oath in front of a heart tree that, should he die with no trueborn heirs, his lands would be forfeited to the crown, and that his natural son would, under no circumstances, receive any inheritance of any kind. The Dreadfort’s maester had drawn up a will, which made the oath legally binding and irreversible. Domeric hoped that in doing this he would further bind Ramsay to himself and help to forestall any further plotting. 

The men had, of course, inquired as to why Lord Bolton’s bastard had been brought back to the Dreadfort, and why he was being pushed so heavily, but neither Roose nor Domeric ever gave a clear answer. The men didn’t put up a fuss, they were used to Bolton’s having secrets. Lady Bethany Bolton had been none to pleased to find that her husband’s baseborn son had been brought to the castle, but the new will helped to reassure her. Domeric had decided to keep Ramsay’s crime a secret from her too, not wanting to make his mother worry. This secrecy had put stress on their otherwise close relationship, but it was better than the alternative. Domeric remembered with pleasure his homecoming gift from her, the blood red mare he rode every day. It was the offspring of a Ryswell horse, which she had brought with her as part of her dowry, and one from the Bolton herd. It was often said that the Ryswells bred the best horses north of Hornvale, but Domeric had often thought that the Boltons’ tireless steeds were just as good. His own horse, Nymeria, was as brave as her namesake, as well as intelligent, hearty, and energetic. She was his second steed; the first a dappled grey, a parting gift from his foster-father. Lady Barbrey Dustin had also promised six years ago, on the day of his departure from Barrowtown, that when he returned he could have his pick of the colts.

With effort Domeric turned his attention away from the prospect of a new addition to his growing herd, and looked again at Ramsay, now doing calisthenics.

“Was I wrong to spare him? Is this all a fool’s errand?”

Domeric found himself asking these questions less and less frequently. He had dealt with Ramsay quite firmly in the Dreadfort’s cells and his program seemed to be bearing fruit. 

Domeric went about his morning routine, shaving the light scruff of jet black hair on his face and dressing in his usual riding leathers. He thought he could squeeze in a quick gallop before sword practice today. He was surprised to find his father and mother eating together in the solar; they rarely interacted in such a domestic fashion.

“Good morning, Mother, Father.”

“Oh Domeric, I have good news for you. Your aunt has sent a raven and she invites, well the word she uses is requires, you to visit. “

“That’s certainly good to hear, I’ll look forward to visit.”

“That’s more than most would be willing to say,” his father replied. 

Domeric ignored the jab at the famously biting Barbrey Dunstin, “Does she say when she expects me?” 

“She’s given you three weeks, and not a day more,” his mother answered.

“But that means I’ll have to leave almost immediately.”

“It does indeed,” said Lord Bolton. “Lady Barbrey is not a patient woman. In fact I rather expect that she had hoped that you would leave of your own accord. You will have to arrange an escort of course, it would not due to have you taken by highwaymen or a band of wildlings. I hear that you’ve made great progress with your… protégé. Perhaps you could include him in your retinue and see if you’ve made the impression you think you have.”

***

Domeric had chosen to journey to Barrowtown via Hornwood rather than Winterfell. It meant avoiding a good deal of prying questions about the Stark family, and it afforded Domeric an opportunity to meet his father’s neighbors. Lord Hornwood had been very obliging, though there seemed to be some question of a border holdfast that he wanted cleared up at some future date, and had thrown a very minor feast for Domeric and his company. It had been a merry evening, with many old jokes retold and much good northern ale enjoyed. Domeric had been somewhat concerned that Ramsay would return to old habits once outside the confines of the Dreadfort, but instead he comported himself quite well, and was even affable and pleasant. It was a good sign, though hardly proof of a reformed character. 

Ramsay remained on his best behavior throughout the journey, serving Domeric and his seven companions as dogsbody without complaint. Domeric made sure that Ramsay was not allowed any jobs related to cooking, and ensured that he was always watched, but there were no incidents. Malcolm Coffyn, who had taken over as Ramsay’s chief warden, drove Ramsay just as hard as his father had, and seemed quite pleased with the young youth’s progress. He had even suggested giving Ramsay some elementary combat lessons, an idea that Domeric had decided to wait on for a while. 

They had finally arrived at Barrowtown two days early, which pleased Lady Dustin. She had arranged a larger celebration than the quick feast scraped together by Lord Hornwood, though the somber nature of her hall made the affair rather less enjoyable. 

The following day Lady Dustin had fulfilled her promise, and showed Domeric to her stables, stocked mostly with horses from her father’s herd. Domeric had nearly exhausted the stable master with questions about the heredity of each of the young colts, but had ultimately chosen a sturdy male, coal black in color, who had all the makings of an excellent warhorse. Domeric and his company had stayed for three more weeks at Barrowtown at Lady Dustin’s request. Domeric rather thought that this visit had been extended in order to keep him from visiting Winterfell while King Robert was staying. It would be bad enough for Domeric to visit the Starks at all, but worse if he got any ideas about returning south with the court. As it was, the King came and left and had been gone for two weeks by the time Domeric finally arrived at the seat of house Stark. 

It was hardly a warm reception that greeted him. The raven announcing his arrival had been lost, or possibly not sent, and the castle was in a state of disorder on his arrival. Lady Stark, it seemed had just recently left and Robb, it seemed, had not yet got everything running entirely smoothly. 

Finally, after the better part of an hour waiting awkwardly in the gatehouse, the heir of Winterfell arrived and greeted the assembly of Bolton men, a little sternly, but with good enough grace considering their unannounced arrival. 

“I do apologize for the wait, the household is still quite concerned about the wellbeing of my brother. Tell me…”

“Domeric.”

“Yes, tell me Domeric Bolton, have you ever feared for the life of a brother?”

“Yes indeed, Lord Stark, I know the feeling well."


	6. Robb I

Robb

It was scarcely a month since Catelyn’s departure, but already much had changed around the castle.. The attack on Bran had cast an aura of grave solemnity over the whole community, which was not entirely inappropriate given the current situation. War could well be on the horizon, and now was not the time for frivolity. 

At the present moment Robb was sitting opposite to one of the other changes around the castle: his guest, Domeric Bolton. The heir to the Dreadfort of was of an average height and build, but the stillness and severity of his demeanor was somehow imposing on its own. Robb new, vaguely, of house Bolton’s repute, but he rather like the visitor. He was courteous and well spoken, and seemed genuinely interested in Bran’s welfare. More importantly, he was a skilled fighter and the heir one of the strongest of Winterfell’s bannermen. Catelyn herself had said that Winterfell might soon need every sword it could muster. 

Robb had just returned from checking in on Bran and had returned to the small rough room, which he had taken as his office, only to find Domeric waiting for him there. 

“Has his condition changed, my lord?” 

“No. It’s the same as it’s been for the past month.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” A note of sincerity flavored Bolton’s normally impassive voice. “If you’ll forgive me, my lord, I must ask… rather I must confess that I have heard rumors about your brother; about the attempt on his life.” 

Robb was confused at this statement. He hadn’t specifically discussed the catspaw’s murder attempt with Domeric, but it was an open secret throughout Winterfell. Surely Domeric would have learned of the episode soon after his arrival? 

“That’s true enough. Why do you mention this?”

“You are, no doubt, aware that it is a curious thing to try to murder a sleeping child. What could be the motive in such a crime? The only one that I can fathom would be to keep him silent. The men of the castle say that he was a great climber, and that his fall was entirely unforeseen. It is not entirely unreasonable to think that he heard or saw some great secret, and that somebody, very likely a member of the royal retinue, was most desirous that he should never live to reveal what he had learned. To kill the son of the King’s Hand is a truly great crime. Discovery would mean death at the very least. And… depending on who committed it, such a crime could cause great disturbance to the peace of the realm. Now I would dismiss this fear as a foolish fancy, but all around me I see the signs of a great house preparing itself for conflict. The guard has been increased, old defenses are being repared, your smiths and fletchers are producing more munitions than seems normal, and you train like a madman. Hard times are on the horizon, are they not?”

Robb tried to keep his face impassive. How could this stranger have figured it all out so easily? Were Robb’s preparations too obvious? Or was war really so inevitable that anyone could see it?

“You see much, Bolton. But why do you bring this up to me?”

“Because I am a northman and sworn to Winterfell. And if there is even the remotest chance of war on the horizon, it is my duty to do all in my power to aid my liege.”

“I appreciate your support, Bolton, but at this moment there is little that I can do, and less that I can say. You are right that I am preparing Winterfell for the possibility of conflict, but I can tell you no more than that. And if you truly have the North’s best interests at heart, you will share your observations with no one. There is nothing more likely to lead to war than for word to get out that the North is gathering it swords.”

“Of course, my Lord. But, if I may, I have a few thoughts on ways to continue the preparations in a way that would arouse no suspicion.”

“Go on.” Robb was dubious. Even the modest steps he had taken had aroused Domeric’s curiosity. Doing something as dramatic as fortifying Moat Cailin would raise the concern of the whole realm.

“It would, of course, be more than suspicious for you to start holding council with your father’s bannermen. Even sending private messages might provoke undesirable rumors. But there is something else you can do to begin rallying your men. It would be perfectly natural for you to invite certain of the younger members of the Northern houses to come to Winterfell to engage in something akin to a squire’s tournament. I know your father frowns on such events, but a squire’s tourney need hardly be a grand or expensive affair, but it would give you an excellent opportunity to meet some of the men you might one day command; to learn their strengths and weaknesses. The lords of the North do not yet know you as they did your father, this might be a good opportunity for you to start building the relationships upon which you will have to rely in the future.”

Robb considered the idea, there was much to recommend it. There would certainly be nothing remarkable about a young lord celebrating his father’s new title with other young men of his station. 

“My father won’t like it. As you said, he finds such affairs frivolous. He’s often said that it’s wrong for men to ‘play at warfare.’ Many Northmen think the same. I don’t want them to regard me as green and naïve for indulging in such folly. What’s more it would not be right to hold a festival even as my brother is unwell.”

“That’s a fair point. But I may have a solution. How would it be if I were to arrange for my father to host the tourney at his own castle? You would still get to take the measure of you future lords bannermen, and attention would be diverted away from Winterfell. And, of course, nobody would have any reason to cast aspersions on you character.”

Robb leaned back and thought for a second before answering. “There’s much to consider here, and no need to rush into it all at once. But there is definitely merit to what you say. We’ll speak more on this soon.”


	7. Bran I

Bran

 

A crack, a smash, and Darryn Hornwood was thrown from his saddle. Scarcely had he hit the ground when his good-natured voice bellowed out from the tangled mass of tawny livery “I’m fine, there’s nothing broken, and also please give me all the wine that there is.” The assembled onlookers let out a smatter of relieved chuckles even as they continued to cheer on Torhen Karstark, the victor of the first joust in Roose Bolton’s tournament of Northern youths. 

 

It was a small affair, but a lively one. A dozen prominent northern families had sent their sons, nephews, and cousins to participate in the tournament in order to bring honor to their houses and to find out what exactly had caused the infamous Leach Lord of the Dreadfort to provide such an uncharacteristically sunny entertainment. Officially, the tournament was in celebration of three events: the naming of Eddard Stark as hand of the king, the return of Domeric Bolton from his fostering in the Vale, and the deliverance of Bran himself from his months long sleep.

 

Because of this, Bran was seated in the place of honor in the center of the reviewing stand. Lying at his feat was his direwolf, Summer. On his left hand sat Smalljon Umber, who, at twenty-one was just barely too old to participate in the tourney. The massive man had been rather put out upon learning this, but was quickly entering into the spirit of the event now that the action was underway. Bran was secretly relieved that the Smalljon was sitting with him, as it meant Robb would not be facing the gigantic individual. For whatever reason, Roose Bolton was not bothering to watch his own tournament, and the rest of the box was made up of various Northern ladies and their sworn swords and chaperones. Bethany Bolton, the Lady of the Dreadfort sat at Bran’s right, and next to her was Lady Barbrey Dustin who had journeyed all the way from Barrowton to watch her nephew joust. Jonelle Cerwyn had arrived with her brother. Both of Ser Wylis Manderly’s daughters sat in the front row, cheering on their cousins while Alys Karstark, who had granted her favor to the defeated Daryn Hornwood, sat quiety beside them. Next to the Smalljon were his three sisters; Myranda, Lorra, and Lyanna and their roars of approval were nearly as loud as their brother’s. On either side of the stands hundreds of smallfolk had gathered to watch their lord’s heir compete against his peers.

 

Two Umber cousins rode against eachother in the next tilt, and after that Eddard Karstark broke three lances against Martyn Manderly before being unseated. Theon Greyjoy defeated Edric Lightfoot, but was in turn brought down by Cregan Umber. Bran’s throat tightened as his brother rode into the lists. “Please let him be safe,” he muttered under his breath. It turned out that Bran needn’t have worried. Robb easily unhorsed Benfred Tallhart and received the loudest cheer yet, though Bran also distinctly heard somebody hissing a couple of seats to his right.

 

Skilled as Robb was, he was not the greatest rider on the field. Domeric Bolton rode like the wind itself. He unhorsed the heir to one of his house’s bannermen on his first tilt, and went on to strike down Cley Cerwyn, Robar Umber, and Dontos Waterman. On his fifth tilt, when he pushed Robb from his saddle in an almost gentle fashion the cheers of the commons and nobles alike were nearly drowned out by the cackling of Lady Barbrey.

 

Watching the tournament had been a delight for Bran, so many skilled and gallant riders. None of them had been knights of course, they were all squires or else men of a squirely age, but they guarded their honor all the more fiercely for it. Yet now that riding was over, bran was almost consumed with the understanding of what he had lost. As Walder, the Winterfell stable master, lifted him up to bring him to his pavillion in order to prepare for the night’s feast he began to sulk. Walder noticed the change in his expression and said “I knew that this was a bad idea. Robb never should have put you through all this.”

 

Bran bristled at this. “Don’t say that about Robb. I told him that I had to go. If he’d left me behind I would have never forgiven him”

 

“That’s true enough,” replied Walder “but in that case he never should have come here for this silly tournament. You two should have stayed in Winterfell while you recovered your strength.”

 

“I’m much stronger now then I would have been if I stayed in Winterfell. And on the way here I got to train dancer. You know how well I can ride now.

 

“I’m sure Lord Tyrion will be very pleased to hear it, and you have done a very good job with that steed of yours, but I wasn’t talking so much about your body. I mean… well never mind.”

 

“You think I’m not strong and brave enough to be a knight anymore, but I will be. I will be the greatest knight in all the North, and they will call me the winged wolf because I will ride like the wind.”

 

“Mayhaps, Bran, mayhaps. But for now, you are young, and not everyone will believe that of you. The next few years of your life will not be easy for you, and the next few days may be the hardest of all. You can’t allow yourself to sulk in front of the North.”

 

The feast was not being held in the Dreadfort. Instead, a number of long tables had been set up some distance from the tournament field. Red and pink festoonery was everywhere and a group of minstrels played joyously near the high table.

 

“The inside of the Dreadfort must be even more gloomy than the outside if they’ve gone to this much trouble to keep us from coming inside,” japed Theon. Bran turned his head to look at the foreboding walls of the Bolton stronghold. He was happy not to have to cross over into that dark castle. He, Robb, and Theon made their way to the high table. Where Domeric and his mother awaited them. Once again Lord Bolton was nowhere to be found, and once again nobody missed him. Slowly, the rest of the guests took their seats and when they were all assembled Domeric Bolton proposed a toast.”

 

“My toast is two-fold, my well-loved lords and ladies, I drink firstly to our Lord Eddard Stark; a man who’s worth is known across the seven kingdoms. And I drink secondly to his son who is one of the bravest lads I have ever known. Who chose to journey here mere weeks after arising from what many thought would be an endless sleep. Who rode here when most said he would never ride again. I drink to Brandon the unbreakable.”

 

The response was only somewhat muted. Many of those assembled seemed to reserve judgment on Bran’s character, but many others joined in the toast with gusto. Bran was pleased to see genuine smiles from Wylla Manderly, Smalljon Umber, and Benfred Tallhart. Now the food began to be brought out and it was as good as anything served in Winterfell. “Who could have imagined lemon cakes coming out of a flayed man’s oven? Exclaimed Theon Greyjoy. “I assumed that all they ate here was raw mutton and filets of Andal warriors.”

 

As the last food began to be cleared away, the dancing began. Bran laughed at seeing the enormous Smalljon dancing gravely with tiny Wylla Manderly. Her sister seemed to be attracting the most attention. Wynafryd was tall and slender and perfectly poised. Bran was very confused at how such a fair maiden could be related to the fleshy and awkward Manderly Knights, but was distracted from such concerns by the commotion as Domeric Bolton made to join the Minstrels.

 

From a leather carrying case he withdrew a high harp and assumed a serene attitude. Bran was surprised when, instead of a stately ballad, Domeric began to play a quick dancing tune and then to accompany it with song.

 

Room for a Lad that come from seas,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
That gladly now would take his ease,  
And therefore make me room man.  
To Lys, the Summer isles, and Lorath  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
I crossed the seas, and then came back  
And therefore make me room man.  
Yet in these Countries lived I,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
And see many a valiant soldier die,  
And therefore give me room man.  
An hundred gallants there I killed,  
Hey jolly Broom man.  
And beside a world of blood I spilled,  
And therefore make me room man.  
In the Travertine I took a town,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
I threw the walls there up side down,  
And therefore make me room man.  
And when that I the same had done,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
I made the people all to run,  
And therefore make, etc.  
And when the people all were gone,  
Hey Jolly Broom man,  
I held the town my self alone,  
And therefor make me room man.  
When valiant Daeron fought with Daemon,  
Hey Jolly Broom man,  
I found myself with no safe haven,  
And therefore make me room man.  
When Aegon warred against the Sun,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
Then through my help the sands he won,  
And therefore, etc.  
With great Harmond I tossed the Club,  
Hey jolly Broom Man.  
I knocked him down with a mighty thud,  
And therefore make me room man.  
When the Dothraki besieged Qarth’s walls,  
Hey jolly Broom man.  
I drove them back with fiery balls,  
And therefore make me room man.  
And when Valyria burned the Rhoyne,  
Hey Jolly Broom man,  
I rescued off Nymeria’s joy,  
And therefore, make me room man.  
And when that I had won this fame,  
Hey, jolly Broom man,  
I was honored of all men for the same,  
And therefore make me room man  
At Fairisle with the lord of Crake,  
Hey, jolly broom man,  
I made the Iron Fleet to quake,  
And therefore make me room man.  
At Stony Sept there I fought,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
But there the service proved too hot,  
And therefore, make me room man.  
Then from the sept returned I,  
Hey jolly Broom man,  
Naked, Hungry, cold, and dry,  
And therefore Make me Room man.  
And now I am safe returned here,  
Hey jolly Broom man.  
Here’s to you in a cup of Northern Beer,  
And therefore make me room man.  
And if my travels you desire to see,  
Hey jolly Broom man.  
You may buy it for a copper here of me,  
And hereafter make me room man.


	8. Domeric IV

Domeric

 

The day had been everything Domeric had hoped for. He had acquitted himself well on the tournament field and even his musical display seemed to have gone over well enough. That had been a bit of a gamble, as Domeric had not been entirely sure what kind of reaction young Northern lords would give to such a comparatively “soft” pursuit. Ultimately, he had not particularly noticed or cared. The glances he received from the attending ladies were worth any amount of scorn from their brothers and cousins. His eyes had been particularly drawn to the elder of the two Manderly sisters. She looked to be of an age with him, and her appearance could not have differed more from her cousin Martyn. Where he was short and fat, she was tall and slim and altogether more than comely. Unfortunately, though Domeric had felt certain he could feel her gaze, every time he looked back at her she was in deep conversation with Daryn Hornwood. Throughout the rest of the evening he looked for an opportunity to approach her, to introduce himself and take the measure of her temperament, but every moment had felt wrong.

 

Domeric’s mind now wandered to a memory of Ysilla Royce, the first girl he’d ever yearned for. She was everything I ever wanted, nobility and elegance, and prestige. It’s a pity she had to be so… It didn’t matter. Ysilla was distant in more ways than one, and Wynafryd Manderly seemed thoroughly occupied with the young Hornwood, given how much time they had spent talking together

 

Domeric was not entirely sure what she saw in him. Daryn had been the first rider unseated at the tourney and had demonstrated no particular martial prowess. And though he was quick-witted and jovial, he projected little seriousness and panache. Still, he at least had better graces than Benfred Tallhart, a noisy youth who was altogether lacking in subtlety and wisdom. Domeric had taken dark pleasure in telling Benfred the very gory story of the valiant Beric Hersy who had got himself butchered by mountain clansmen a few years ago. Not that he’s likely to understand the meaning of the tale. 

 

Other of his guests had proved more impressive. The Karstark brothers seemed likely to become very dangerous men in the future, and Smalljon Umber had already achieved that feat. In addition to being the tallest and strongest of his brothers, he was also the most thoughtful and incisive. He will make a first rate commander one day. He’ll have the respect of his men, and the brains to see them kept safe. 

 

Domeric relayed all these impressions to his father the following morning. It had not been easy to get his father to consent to this “southron frivolity” especially without disclosing the highly confidential information that Robb Stark believed war was a possibility. Domeric’s primary arguments in favor of the tournament had been that it would cement his budding friendship with the heir of the King’s hand, and that it would create an opportunity for him to begin the process of teasing out options for a betrothal with one of the other major houses. This, Roose had countered, was not justification enough to warrant such an unusual expenditure. He had ultimately had to make subtle allusions to the “imperative” need for greater Northern unity and the value of being able to take the measure of his peers “while there was still time.” He hadn’t betrayed Robb’s confidence, but Lord Bolton had been able to draw his own conclusions about what might be afoot in the near future.

 

“And that is really all there is to say,” Domeric concluded. “They’re about as varied in character as one would expect. I’d certainly put good relations with the Umbers as a priority as there are just so many of them and they are all so vigorous. As far as marriage prospects in the north are concerned, options are limited but favorable. Jonelle Cerwyn is entirely unsuitable, but Umber has two daughters of a marriageable age and Alys Karstark appears likely to flower within the next two years.”

 

“And what of the daughters of Wylis Manderly?”

 

“Wynafryd appears to favor Daryn Hornwood, and Wylla has green hair.”

 

“And you believe those to be insuperable obstacles?”

 

“Not insuperable, but certainly inconvenient. Is it so important? The Umbers and Karstarks are strong houses and only likely to increase in power.”

 

Roose Bolton did not raise his voice, he never raised his voice, but it seemed to have an increased intensity about it now. “Do you not realize that Wynafryd Manderly is and will likely remain the heiress to Whiteharbor?”

 

Domeric was mildly taken aback. “Truly, father? She has no brother? I thought…”

 

“You were mistaken,” Roose continued over his son’s voice. “Leona Woolfield, her mother, gave birth five times and only two of her children survived childhood. Wynafryd Manderly is the heiress to the most powerful house in the North and to one of only five cities in the realm. If you were to unite her house with ours we would have more influence within the North than the Hightowers have within the Reach. I think she is worth at least a little effort, no matter how ‘inconvenient’ you find the prospect.”

 

Domeric nodded curtly and, having nothing else to say, left his father’s solar for the tournament grounds. The jousting had concluded with his victory over Robb Stark the previous day, but today the melee would take place. South of the Neck, melees were considered to be of secondary interest, but in the North they were the most popular event, and Domeric could now see that smallfolk were already beginning to stake out spaces around the penned-in area where the melee would take place.

 

Domeric continued past the tourney grounds to the padock where his and his guests’ horses were being kept for the duration of the tourney, the Dreadfort stables not having enough room to accommodate all the visiting mounts. He was very pleased to encounter Bran riding on dancer, accompanied by Walder on his enormous dappled steed. Domeric privately thought that Walder had to be some kind of illegitimate scion of the Umbers, given his massive stature and strength. Bran eagerly demanded that Domeric accompany them on their ride, and Domeric was only too happy to oblige him.

 

Bran was always excited to hear stories from the Vale, the birthplace of chivalry, but Domeric also endeavored to convey the idea that Knights were not the only admirable heroes in the world. “And of course, many Knights are wicked indeed. I can’t even begin to tell you some of the tales I’ve heard whispered by Michael Redfort.” At this Bran began to pester him more aggressively “No, Bran, they are truly disgusting, and not in an amusing way. Suffice it to say that Knightly vows and even feats of martial valor are no guarantee of honor.”

 

By the time they had returned to the paddock, Domeric had to move quickly to his tent in order to arm himself for the melee. He had no personal tournament harness and had had to equip himself with spare pieces from the Dreadfort armory. His aunt Barbrey had mentioned the previous night that as a reward for unhorsing Robb Stark she would commission him a tourney kit from an armorer in Whiteharbor. It was a truly generous gift, and one few aunts would give to their nephews. Still, Domeric had to work very hard to push away feelings of disappointment. He would have preferred to have his armor commissioned in Gulltown, which had a rather more skilled armoring guild, or Lannisport, which produced the finest armor in the entire realm, but either option would have been entirely inconvenient and prohibitively expensive. The Whiteharbor blacksmiths will be more than adequate, he thought. In the meantime, aided by Malcolm Coffyn,he began to arm himself in his mismatched kit. His arm and leg pieces were fairly non-descript darkened steel, but his coat of plates was lovingly embroidered with a rather hideous black skull with blood dripping from its teeth. He hid this with a rose-colored surcoat that bore a very small and highly stylized version of his house sigil. He now looked the very image of respectable chivalry and he paused a moment before turning to his helm.

 

He scowled at it in distaste as he always did. It had been a part of his grandfather’s tournament armor and was of the finest artisanal quality. It was blood red and fashioned to resemble a skinless head, mouth opened in torturous pain. Domeric had been surprised to find that there were no other spare visored helms in the Dreadfort that would fit him, and had begun to suspect that his father had removed any other options that might have been available. Well, it’s better than a sword in the face. And if the onlookers were able to cheer for this horrible thing yesterday, they’ll cheer for it today too. 

 

Donned his helm, picked up his melee cudgel, and stepped out of his tent. Most of the other competitors were already gathered and had begun to assemble into four teams. One team was made up almost entirely of Umbers. Three of the Greatjon’s sons, along with their cousins and pair of mountain clansmen who had wandered south with them stood shoulder to shoulder, each one huger than the last. Opposite them stood a rather nervous row of squires from the southeast. Led by Martyn Manderly and Dontos Waterman they appeared none too confident about squaring off against their enormous counterparts. The third team, which Domeric now joined, was made up of local boys, including Malcolm’s youngest brother Cleos and the ever dour Patrek Bloodden. Most of these hadn’t participated in the jousting, but were quite eager for the melee. They weren’t anything like as huge as the Umbers, but they were wiry and tough as nails. Domeric didn’t entirely hate his chances. The last team was made up of Robb Stark, Theon Greyjoy, Cley Cerwyn, Benfred Tallhart, Eddard and Torhen Karstark, and Daryn Hornwood.

 

At this point in the proceedings, a quiet murmur went through the crowd of onlookers. Domeric turned to the Judge’s box to see that his father had finely put in an appearance. At his signal the herald gave the command for the contestants to assume their positions. Each team trudged to one corner of the ring and began to ready themselves for combat.

 

“Just a moment!” Domeric looked for the source of the outburst and saw Benfred Tallhart gesticulating wildly. “Just one moment! Our group is one man short!”

 

Domeric counted and saw that it was true. Three of the teams had eight members, but the last had only seven. Robb pulled back his helm and called out “Dom! Can we borrow one of your men?” Domeric nodded in ascent and started looking around for a suitable candidate.

 

“How about him? He looks the right age,” yelled Torhen Karstark. Domeric began to turn towards whomever Torhen was pointing at, but was distracted by a rippling movement. A light breeze had stirred a strip of cloth hanging from Daryn Hornwood elbow: a lady’s favor. Seven hells. He really has managed to charm Lady Manderly. 

 

Recovering from the brief distraction, Domeric now turned to inspect the latest competitor, who by this point had jogged half way across the field. It took him a moment to recognize the lad’s rolling gate, as his face was in shadow beneath his down swept kettle helm. Domeric’s innards seemed to be roiling inside of him as Ramsay Snow took up his position opposite himself.

“You don’t want him!” Domeric exclaimed in a strained and very unBoltonlike voice. “He’s not one of my men. He’s had no training whatever. I don’t know what he’s doing in armor, but he has no business being on a tournament field!”

Theon waved a dismissive hand. ”Oh, don’t worry yourself, Dom, it scarcely matters. The Umber crew is going to plow through us like a farmer’s field anyway.”

Domeric almost turned his head to give his father an imploring look, but stopped himself. No, this is a test, just another test. Somehow father planned this, and now I have to deal with it. 

Domeric gave Robb a quick questioning look, and received a noncommittal shrug in response. Very well then. I’ll just have to take Ramsay out as quickly as possible and hope for the best.

Now a herald in pink and red livery walked out onto the field bearing a war horn.  
“You are all acquainted with the rules. No blows to the head or to the loins. Grievous injury is to be avoided at all costs. Quarter is to be given as soon as it is asked on pain of disqualification. The melee will commence on my signal.”

The boys on the field readied themselves, lifting up their shields and cudgels. Domeric looked to his left at the line of massive youths from Last Hearth, then to his right at the row of southeastern squires, and then dead ahead at Robb. 

The war horn blared out and things began to happen very rapidly. With shouts of “Last Hearth” “A Norrey!” the Umbers began sprinting towards the other end of the paddock as fast as their legs could carry them and the opposing squires began to brace for the impact. The other two teams held back, having no desire to insert themselves into the path of the oncoming giants and instead set themselves up to take them in the rear as soon as they were engaged with the Manderly boys. Most of these young men scattered before the impact could take place. Those who didn’t were immediately knocked off of their feet and surrendered without striking a blow. Domeric led his party into the fray, as did Robb, and all hope at formation began to rapidly fall apart. Through the restrictive eye slits in his helmet, Domeric saw brief and disjointed images of combat: Daryn Hornwood skirting the edge of the battle, his rust-colored surcoat flapping around him; Robar Umber, abandoning his club and shield and lashing out with his fists at anyone who came close; Greyjoy, ferociously knocking back a squire who looked no older than fourteen. Seeking out Ramsay became impossible, as Domeric soon found himself in a three-way duel with Theon Umber and Robett Overton. This fight ended inconclusively when Benfred Tallhart threw himself into their midst calling out vague challenges only to be knocked down immediately for his trouble. Rather than ask for quarter from the six-and-a-half foot tall Theon who stood over him, Benfred made repeated attempts to raise himself up, only to be struck down by Theon’s padded cudgel again and again. He’s got heart, I’ll give him that much.

This somewhat comical distraction gave Domeric a chance to quickly step back and scan the brawling men again. Perhaps a quarter of the combatants had now staggered off the field, but Ramsay didn’t appear to be one of them. Domeric noticed Robb standing on the edge of tussle, and started towards him. If I can take him out myself, he will at least be safe from any possible mischief from Ramsay. He also won’t get stepped on, which might be the greater danger. Before he could reach Robb he just barely noticed the advancing Cley Cerwyn out of the edge of his eye slit. Cley proved to be a fair opponent, if a little uninventive, and it took Domeric about half a minute before he succeeded in bring Cerwyn to his knees.

By this point, more than half the boys had surrendered. On Domeric’s left, Torhen and Eddard Karstark were still on their feet and stood back-to-back, holding off four of Domeric’s compatriots. On his right, the fighting had died down somewhat, as even the other competitors were watching with interest as Daryn Hornwood frantically dueled Robar Umber. Robar was the Greatjon’s second son, and the largest participant in the melee. He was over a foot taller than his opponent and appeared to weigh about twice as much. Despite this mismatch, Daryn was putting up a phenomenal fight. He was leaping from side to side with remarkable agility, and just barely managing to keep out of reach of his foe’s massive fists. The black scarf streaming from his elbow stood out boldly against his orange livery. That’s an odd choice in col…

Domeric’s thoughts were abruptly cut short as a punishing blow slammed into the back side of his knees, knocking him entirely off his feet

His helmet had been jostled in his fall, but out of one eye slit he made out the dark kettle helm he’d been looking for throughout the entire fight. 

“Yield,” he choked out.


	9. Ramsay III

Ramsay

As the war horn sounded, chaos embraced Ramsay like a long-lost son. He felt at home again. Nobody was telling him what to do, or how to do it. He was finally totally free. And it was glorious. The smells and sounds and even the sights around him seemed to fade away, he was a leaf on the wind, a twig carried along by a stream. He embraced all his instincts and followed them without question. Kicking the legs out from underneath this boy was simply the right thing to do, as was wailing away at the small of that fellow’s back. He weaved in and out of the turmoil, dealing out blows with his truncheon, not thinking about goals or plans; simply living. One tall figure in black and gold was yelling something at him as Ramsay ripped the shield from his arms and stomped on his toes as hard as he could

“I’m on your team, you fool!”

Ramsay heard, but didn’t bother comprehending. They were just words. He pushed the figure to the ground and kicked his cudgel away, before turning to his next victim. This went on for a while until Ramsay found himself on the edge of the crowd. He wheeled around looking for his next target. Twenty feet away another form stood, standing perpendicular to Ramsay. Something about it seemed familiar. Ramsay had to stop for a moment to think, which he was loath to do given how much fun he had been having. He’s bad. He hurt me. This was the extent of Ramsay’s thought on the matter, but it was enough to cause him to resolve to give the bad man an especially hard clout. Ramsay did this and then leapt on top of his fallen victim. He was wearing a beautiful helmet, Ramsay saw. I would so love to have a helmet like that. Ramsay ripped the visor open to see the face inside. The eyes were wide with fear, the mouth was open and wailing.

“Yield! I yield! You win!”

I win, Ramsay thought. I always knew I would win. Ramsay felt immensely satisfied and began thinking of ways to celebrate. I can’t get at all of him, but his face is right here. That is plenty. This happy thought was interrupted by a very unwelcome voice coming from inside his head. 

“You can’t kill him,” it said in Ramsay’s own voice. “If you kill him you loose.”

“But I’ve won!” Ramsay screamed back at the voice. Yet somehow, Ramsay knew that the voice was right. Killing would cause some sort of consequences, though he couldn’t remember what. He contented himself with using the bad man’s face as leverage as he got to his feet, and was careful to tread on his arm as he left him. 

There were only a few figures on the field now, he ran towards one of them. The figure struck and hit him full in the face. Ramsay didn’t feel a thing. He was too upset about not being able to kill the bad man to have time for pain. Someone was yelling words again.

“Blow to the head! Disqualified!”

Ramsay slowed his pace now. Something was covering his face and he kept having to pause to wipe it away. When he looked around again he was almost alone. The only other figure was on the other side of the paddock. Ramsay flew at him and channeled all his rage into putting on as much speed as possible. When he met his quarry it was like running into a castle wall. Undeterred he rained blows on his foe, but it was all for not. A hand seized the hem of his tunic and threw him to the ground. Ramsay tried to rise, but found that he could not. He was to weak, and one of his arms wasn’t working properly. He lay moaning on the ground, and gradually his senses returned to him. Pain was the first, and it was everywhere and it began to clear his mind. He slowly began to make sense of his situation. He was lying against the edge of the melee paddock. Nearby, a tall man in red was gesturing wildly and pointing at Ramsay every so often. The bad man in pink, Domeric Bolton, was also talking. The pounding in Ramsay’s head prevented him from identifying everything that the man was saying. He could only make out a few words. 

“He’s raving, Lord Bolton...”  
“Like a wild animal…”  
“Utterly mad…”  
“Not a man…”  
“I must insist…”

But Ramsay heard one word clearly every time it was uttered.

“Merely a bastard…”  
“Clearly a bastard…”  
“A bastard’s heart…”  
“What can you expect of a bastard…”  
“Lord Hornwood’s bastard is…”  
“Bastard’s have been known to…”  
“Bastard.”  
“Bastard.”  
“Bastard.”

It was all too much, and Ramsay embraced the darkness that was settling over him.


	10. Domeric V

Domeric

Domeric looked at the Umbers’ table in wonder. I never imagined it would end that way. Ramsay sat in their midst. His face was quite a sight to see, covered as it was in bruises and dried blood, but Maester Ulfrik had assured Robar that there would be little or no permanent scarring. The look of relief on Robar’s face had been one of the most surreal things Domeric had ever witnessed. The idea of someone being so concerned about the welfare of a vicious monster like Ramsay had seemed preposterous. Yet Domeric could clearly remember Robar’s words as the melee ended:

“Who was that? He’s raving mad, Lord Bolton. Raving mad! I don’t know that I’ve seen a bolder lad in my life! He came right at me like a wild animal even after getting that head wound. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in him! He’s utterly mad! And you say that he is not a man of your guard, master Domeric? No training at all? Then I must insist he accompany me back to Last Hearth. We’ll train him and make a man of him.”

Domeric had made an attempt to talk Robar out of it. He mentioned that Domeric was a bastard and a particularly unruly one at that, but Robar would have none of it. “He’s clearly a bastard in every sense of the word, and all the better for it! We need men with that kind of vigor! The wildling raids are always worst come winter, and none of us need reminding that winter is coming!”

Domeric didn’t press the issue further, but resolved instead to speak to the Smalljon before he departed. He couldn’t tell him everything, but the man had to have some idea of what his brother was bringing to his home. The memory of Ramsay’s face hovering over him during the melee flickered before Domeric’s eyes. His expression had so much rage, yet also… fear? 

He turned away from the Umbers and looked along the high table. For the first time his father had joined them for the feast. He was seated next to Robb Stark, and the two appeared to be deep in conversation. Has Robb taken him into his confidence? I can’t say that that is wise. Certainly Roose Bolton was a good man to have on your side, but ensuring that he stayed there was another matter entirely.

Robar Umber sat in the place of honor as the winner of the melee. Daryn Hornwood and Alys Karstark had also been given seats at the high table in honor of the announcement of their betrothal. It seemed that it had only been finalized the night before and had been contingent upon a favorable meeting between the two of them. Alys was chatting merrily with Domeric’s mother. Already planning her wedding feast, I expect. Daryn still wore the black and white scarf given to him by his betrothed.

Domeric leaned over to him “I don’t think I’ve yet congratulated you. To achieve such success in both love and war in one day is truly remarkable. I don’t know how you lasted so long against that giant.” 

“I’ll accept half your praise. I can take credit for what I did on the field today, but as for my betrothal, that I must attribute to the hard work of family and the providence of the gods. Certainly I did to earn myself such good fortune.” He smiled fondly at Alys.

“So you are eager to marry?”

“I am of two minds. On the one hand, Alys is as brave and kindly a maid as I have ever known. And she has the makings of a beautiful lady. Who could help but be eager to marry such a one as her? On the other hand, she is yet so young. My parents are eager that we marry sooner rather than later in order to secure the future of my house, which is in rather a precarious position, but it seems wrong to me to drag her from childhood so soon.” He leaned closer to Domeric and whispered confidentially “I hope to find some way of delaying the marriage for a few years. Perhaps I’ll take service with some southron house for a time. It will give me a chance to see more of our country, and I may improve my riding, which you have seen is far from satisfactory.”

It was a thoughtful answer, though Domeric was a little suspicious of it too. “That is a most generous perspective. But do you perhaps have an ulterior motive? Perhaps there is some other lady you have lost your heart to, and whose memory you do not wish to dishonor.” 

Daryn narrowed his eyes at this. “Why would you think that?”

“I beg your pardon, I meant you no disrespect. Just the opposite in fact. The heart draws one where it will without regard to conscience or duty. If you wished to delay your nuptials until your heart and head were in closer accord it would be the height of honor and nobility. Do I make myself clear?” 

“I’m afraid you don’t. That is, I believe I understand and appreciate the sentiment, but I don’t understand why you think it would apply to me. It’s an odd assumption to make.”

“My apologies, It’s only that I have perceived a very great… friendship between yourself and the lady Manderly.”

Daryn regarded him for a moment somewhat quizzically and then erupted into barely stifled laughter. “Oh, that’s what you’re getting at! I was so confused! I mean it’s so… but I suppose it would appear that way from the perspective of yourself. Anyway, I’m afraid you are quite mistaken. You’ll find me a plain-speaking person, in most respects and my feelings towards Alys are exactly as described. Actually, I’m somewhat surprised you never heard the story. I was sure my father was spreading rumors in every court in the North. 

“I know of no story and no rumors. But I’d be happy to hear both.”

“Really? Well, it’s fairly simple: No, there is no romantic connection between myself and either of Lord Manderly’s granddaughters; though it’s not for a lack of trying, at least on my father’s part. I was actually betrothed in secret to Wynafryd in infancy. Ser Wylis had a son at that time, and the succession seemed safe enough. You see our two houses have always been close. My mother is a Manderly, though not part of the main line. Lord Manderly and my father were fast friends for decades. In fact my father served as his squire during the war of the ninepenny kings. Wynafryd and Wylla are something like my second cousins twice removed, so a betrothal seemed natural. My father had me fostered at White Harbor so as to help further the relationship. The troubles started when Wylis’s son, Wymar, died of fever. This was not long after I arrived at White Harbor. When that happened… I don’t like to speak ill of my father. He is a good man; kind to his small folk and always generous to me, but he has also had a tendency towards… avariciousness. He cared for little Wymar greatly, but his also saw that his death meant that Wynafryd was now the eventual heir to White Harbor. And as her husband…”

“You would stand to unite both the Hornwood and Manderly lands,” Domeric finished.

“Exactly. And the prospect of that changed my father, and not for the better. He was very happy to see his one-time mentor’s name die out and become dispossessed if it meant adding to his legacy. A lot of things happened that are too complicated to go into but, ultimately, he and Lord Manderly argued and had an enormous falling out. I was brought home and the betrothal was cancelled. This was about two years ago. It was not long after that my father began arranging the betrothal to my lady, Alys. And as far as I am concerned, it was all to the better. See, there was another fly in the ointment. Growing up at White Harbor, I had always viewed Wynafryd and Wylla as my sisters. The thought of having to marry either one is… distasteful in the extreme. It was an enormous relief when that was called off, though it has been terrible not seeing them for so long. Wynafryd in particular was my best friend throughout childhood and seeing her these past few days has been infinitely refreshing.”

“Hence your prolonged conversations with each other.”

“Exactly.”

“So that means…”

“That Wynafryd is free to jump into your waiting arms? I’m afraid that’s rather unlikely. Lord Manderly is exceedingly proud of his family and has vowed that he will do all in his power to ensure that the Manderlys continue to rule their ancestral city into the future. As the heir to house Bolton, I’m afraid you are a threat to his ambitious and are, thus, very low-placed in the running. Martyn Manderly is currently the leading candidate, I believe.”

“You are a clever fellow, Daryn Hornwood. I only wish you were wrong.”

“I don’t blame you for wishing things were otherwise. Wynafryd is one of the most desirable women in the seven kingdoms, both in terms of wealth and character and beauty.”

Domeric envied the casual perspective Daryn had on the matter. Unfortunately, Domeric could not remain so disinterested. He sighed and tried to dismiss the problem by asking a question that had been on his mind for some time. “I do have a query, Daryn, though I must note that it is a little indelicate, but you might know the answer.”

Daryn raised his eyebrows “I’m all ears.”

“Well, I’ve met Martyn and his brother…”

“Ambros.”

“Yes, Ambros. Anyway, both of them are rather… fleshy young lads. I’m led to believe Lord Wyman and his sons are even more so. How is it that they are so much that way when Wynafryd, Wylla, and, if you’ll grant me pardon, your lady mother are so… agreeable in comparison.

For the second time Daryn had to restrain his laughter. “My dear Domeric that is… that’s one way of putting it. I’m surprised though that you don’t know, I thought everyone in the North was familiar with the old joke.”

Domeric shook his head.

“Well, it’s often said that Manderlys of White Harbor have no control over their desires. This makes the men gluttons and the women…”

“Yes?”

“The women are said to be wantons.”

Domeric returned a skeptical expression. “Look, I’ve met your mother and she didn’t seem remotely…”

“I should say not!” Daryn replied indignantly. “But that’s just part of it isn’t it? There’s always someone, or even a number of someones in the family who don’t fit in. There’s always a craven Karstark, a short Umber, a half-way decent Bolton,” at this Darn gestured at Domeric “and a Manderly who has keeps his or her desires in check. You couldn’t ask for a more upstanding woman than my mother.”

“And as for…”

“Wynafryd? I haven’t the faintest idea. Though there is tried and tested method for determining if that is the case.”

“And that is?”

“Ask her for a dance.”

“I thought you said there was no hope in that regard.”

“I said no such thing. I said there was little hope. You’re a good fighter, and as skilled a rider as I’ve ever seen. You’ll have to bring some of that courage to bare if you wish to succeed in wooing anybody. I believe it is widely known that feint heart never won fair lady.”

“Liar. Your betrothal was arranged by your parents.”

“True enough! But I doubt you’ll want your father arranging anything for you. He’ll terrify any potential wife he approaches, and her mother too, which is more important. Leave things to him, and you’ll marry some horrible Frey girl and be gifted a sack of silver and a lifetime of misery. But that’s beside the point. You can woo a maid without marrying her, though that is rather uncouth, and you can marry a maid without wooing her. Do that and you are in for an unpleasant future. But you shouldn’t worry so much, you have a lot of advantages many would kill for. You’ve got a dark and mysterious air about you, skill at arms, not to mention a gruesomely appealing family history.”

“Appealing!? It’s the bane of my existence! What highborn lady wants anything to do with dynasty that lives in a place called the Dreadfort?”

“I’d say at least half of them. Take Alys for example. She’s been begging me all afternoon to take her exploring in the ‘forbidden dungeons of the flayed men.’” 

“Truly?”

“Truly. It’s been hard work convincing her that her brothers would eat me alive if they knew I was taking their maiden sister on such a thrilling adventure without an escort.””

It was quite a thought. “But do you think Wynafryd has any interest in such things?”

“Once again, I do not know. You’ll have to ask her.”

“Why are you so interested all of a sudden? You seem very eager that I should try to woo her now.”

“As I said, you seem a decent fellow. Courteous, chivalrous, and the rest; and I hate to see a man such as yourself throwing away all his good fortune. And I don’t know what Wynafryd thinks of you, but I do know what she thinks of Martyn Manderly, and if there’s even a chance of her avoiding that fate, I will be very happy to aid her.”

By this time the farewell feast was nearing its conclusion. The lemon cakes Domeric had been enjoying were cleared away, and once again minstrels began tuning their instruments in preparation for the dancing. He looked to where Wynafryd was seated talking with her sister. He also looked at Martyn Manderly. He had been polite enough, but was deadly dull. I wouldn’t be a bit afraid of him if he were charging at me on a warhorse with a lance leveled at my face. If I can do that, I can ask a maid to dance. And if she enjoys that, I can invite her to see my family’s extensive collection of human skins. It’s a perfect plan.


End file.
